I'm falling for the Stiff
by themockingjayisdivergent
Summary: [[I can't stop thinking about her. I think, I know that it is wrong. But then I look into the waves of her eyes and all of my resolve dissolves]] Divergent written from Tobias's POV. The plot follows the book 90% of the time. I began writing it from where Chapter 10 begins in the book, thus my chapters starting at 10, but if I get requests, I can go back and add more :)
1. Chapter 10

How I fell asleep last night after being told what Eric pulled after I brought Will to the infirmary is beyond me. But as the cool air of the dimly lit hallway brushes against my face, I feel refreshed, suffocated with less uneasiness than usual. I tell myself that Eric purged the crazy out of his system, temporarily.

Or at least, I wasn't dreading the day as much a moment ago. Now, as I enter the training room, my stomach plummets. Eric is scrawling names on the chalkboard and just as he turns to face me, my eyes catch the last one. Tris. He has matched Tris with Peter.

"Four," Eric nods, scrutinizing my face, searching for weaknesses. Searching for a sign I care about one of them, about her. I won't give him the pleasure.

"Eric," I reply back, crossing the room and holding his gaze all the while. I stand with my back against the wall, thumbs looped in my belt holes, watching the transfers trickle in. Well, not really watching. I stare blankly and contemplate how badly Tris is about to get injured. Waves start to surge and swell in my stomach. Knowing that there is no way to help her with Eric in charge makes me long for Abnegation all the more.

I immediately lock my eyes on Tris as she enters, but her eyes are wide and transfixed on the board; her face contorts in fear. A pink hue rises to her cheeks, and she tries to hide it by covering her face with her small, delicate fingers. Fingers that are about to be bruised, about to be bloodied; and I am allowing this.

I regret having eaten breakfast, and focus on not focusing, on drowning out the sounds around me until the fight between Molly and Edward is over. Tris bravely steps into the center of the arena and I cringe. Peter towers over her slight frame and it is all I can do to not interject, so I cross the room toward the door, fold my arms, and purse my lips to keep from doing something idiotic.

Unfortunately, Eric crosses the room as well, as though to monitor my reactions, monitor my heartbeat that I am sure he can hear. Peter is taunting her, and I notice Tris's expression change. Instead of the fearful eyes she entered the room with, there is a glint of anger and before I can even register it, she attempts to kick his side. I wonder if she is thinking of the advice I had offered her yesterday and then stupidly will away the thought.

The fight drags on, and the food in my stomach continues to rise. Anger is seeping through my veins, coursing, pounding at the same speed as my hammering heart. Tris feebly attempts to stand as Peter grabs her by the ear and pounds her skull into the ground. And I. Can't. Take it. I shove the door open and hear it slam against the opposite wall as I storm out. I could care less what Eric thinks. How can I live with myself watching Tris, forcing Tris to fight someone far beyond what her strength level will ever be? I head straight for the bathroom, blindly find a stall, and my breakfast floods up. I wretch until there is nothing left. My eyes water and I pound my fist against the door.

That's when I hear a high-pitched screeching noise and I instinctively bolt. I run back into the training room to find Tris unconscious in a pool of her blood. It is all I can do to not hurl Peter across the room, beat the smugness off of Eric's face. "Enough!" The word echoes through the room, deep and angry. The voice is mine.


	2. Chapter 10 and a half

A crown of blond hair, encircling a swollen, purple jaw and cloudy ocean eyes press down on the back of my eyelids. Although I have been lying on my bed for an hour, maybe two, the uselessness of attempting to sleep was apparent before I even entered my dormitory. My eyelids flutter open to be filled with black letters: Fear God Alone. I grimace back a laugh. When I passed Dauntless initiation two years ago and received my room, I chose to keep it bare, Abnegation, Stiff; a representation of where I truly belong. But as a reminder to improve, to surpass my four fears, I painted the words above my door. They now mock me, jeer at my inability to overcome my fears.

I push myself up and rub my temples with my fingertips in a circular motion, as though I am polishing a countertop free from dust. But the dust I am currently attempting to scour is not dust at all, but scars, scars deep and subterranean with roots that are anchored through my body and haunt me. I am not worthy of my nickname and I long to hear Tobias again. I crave for her to call out to me. _You're an idiot_, I think. But even as this thought crosses my mind, stamps out the possibility of that ever being a reality, the sensation of Tris's heartbeat in her stomach as my fingers grazed her ribcage during training spirals into my own, and the fluttering of wings and papers colliding midair cause my heart to race.

Before I even realize what I'm doing, my feet are wedging themselves into my always tied sneakers, wiggling down and thumping toward the door. I don't know where I'm going, have no reason to be leaving my dorm. And yet, I walk.


	3. Chapter 10 and a half - Tris's POV

**Author's note: **This is the only chapter I have written in Tris's perspective – I wanted to try out a different POV, so I don't know how well it worked out. I'm probably going to stick to Tobias's but if you could let me know how I did in Tris's vs. Tobias's, that would be SO helpful! Thank you :)

My mind awakens but my eyes remain closed. A fleeting thought floats through my mind, that if I keep my eyes closed, maybe I can suppress the pain that is already throbbing, aching, demanding my attention. And just as that thought begins to sink, a new one swims up. Not a thought, though; a face. A pair of eyes, a deep and concerned blue, eyebrows blurred but twisted in concern, backing away, away. Four. My eyes shoot open.

"Tris?" I hear Christina's voice, worried. "Are you okay?"

"What does it look like to you?" I sputter out, my voice trembling. And I know it is not just from the pain.

"Well, I know you're not okay. The nurse made us go back to the dormitories last night at 10. We've been in here for two hours now," she says, flipping her wrist to indicate Will who is sitting opposite of her.

"You look pretty Dauntless now, Stiff," Will teases, his joking smile shaded ever so slightly by the apprehension evident in the crease between his blonde brows.

"Seriously, though - are you okay? Do you remember what happened? The nurse said you might have trouble remembering-"

Will cuts off Christina, "Due to a minor concussion."

"What's there to remember? Peter beat the crap out of me," I state, trying not to let the fear of seeing him creep into my already shaky voice. But then... there is something I don't remember. "How did I get here?"

Will and Christina exchange a glance that I can't quite read. Confusion? Secrecy? What is there to hide?

"Well," Christina starts, hesitating. "Peter kicked you hard in the side. You shrieked, and then went limp. Then..." she trails off.

Will picks up for her. "Then Four slammed the door open, called out, 'Enough!', and Eric told us all to leave. Christina and I tried to stay, but when we couldn't, we kind of hung back. That's when we saw Four carrying you to the nurse." Confusion settles on Will's normally playful features, as though he cannot piece together in his Erudite mind why Four - our daunting instructor - would end the fight and personally escort me to the nurse's office. Frankly, I can't either. I want to. I need to.

"Do you think you could help me sit up?" I ask.

Christina gives me a doubting glance. "I don't think that's a great idea. The nurse said you should stay here for the day..."

"Well I think we both know that's not happening," I reply, already pushing down on the mattress with my elbows to hoist my body weight up. And everything screams inside of me, demanding to be heard, felt, pained. "Besides," I wince. "I need to use the bathroom." I don't need to use the bathroom. They don't need to know that.

Christina grabs under my shoulder and Will stands up to steady my other side. When my feet make contact with the linoleum, I let out a hiccup of a yelp.

"Tris," Christina starts, but I interject.

"I'm fine, really. And no helping me once I'm out the door. That's all I need Peter to see."

Will and Christina swap another glance, but I am too busy to read more into it. My first few steps are excruciating and fire courses through my ribcage, my thigh, my jaw. My eardrums are overcome by crashing waves. When I reach the doorway, Christina steps forward again and says, "I'll go with you."

"Christina," I groan. Then I decide to take another approach. I try to perk up my voice, most likely unsuccessfully, and request, "Could you bring me back some food from the cafeteria? I'm starving!"

This seems to work, as the sides of her mouth creep their way into a smile. "Sure," she replies.

I limp out, squinting to adjust my eyes to the relative daylight. It must be breakfast hour, as the halls are full of shadows from lights instead of shadows from Dauntless clothing. I use the wall as support and make my way down the hallway, not toward the bathroom, not toward the initiate dormitories, but in search of deep blue eyes.

I turn the corner and notice a group of transfers staring at me. I must look worse than I thought. When I reach the water fountain, I realize I don't know where I am going or what I am doing. I halt, inhale a shallow breath, and my eyes shut. What are you going to say, Tris? Thanks for not letting me die? Thanks for finding the fight intriguing enough to come back and finish watching? He was doing his job, nothing more. I feel heat rush to my cheeks, and my heel swivels too abruptly, causing my face to contort into a grimace. No. I will not do this. I retrace my steps back down the hallway and to my dorm, and try to unburn the searing image of deep blue eyes from my mind.


	4. Chapter 11

At some point I must have circled back through the shadows to my room, but I have no recollection of it. Blocking out the passing of time is one of the few feats I achieved in childhood that has benefited me here. That and computers. Sweat slicks my body but one quick glance at the alarm and I know a shower is out of the question. The patchwork blue comforter slides from the bed and I reluctantly do too. I monotonously go through the motions of moving from the sleep to morning routine: putting on a clean black shirt, slipping into my sneakers, and recently, glimpsing into the mirror. A pang of guilt ignites my already unsettled stomach and I quickly look away. It's not just the selfishness of the glance or the doubtfulness about how my parts ended up fitting into one whole; it's the deepness of the blue that pierces into me. It belongs to him.

_Pull it together_, I demand myself. My teeth grind down against one another as the muscles of my jaw constrict. "Hey, Four!" I hear as I exit the room, letting the door latch itself behind me. But I'm not in the mood and my countenance must make that apparent, as the girl does not further pursue attempting to talk with me. _Good_, I think. My mind is a haze of frazzled thoughts, dissonant fragments and bits: Dauntless brutes, Marcus, selflessness, blue, Tris - and I sharply inhale. _This has got to stop_. I salvage a few deep breaths and when I exhale, I push the thoughts out in a heavy mixture with the air.

A few of the transfers are already waiting in the Pit as I compose myself and attempt to avoid searching for her face. I fail at this. My eyes meet each of theirs to indicate that they should follow me and we climb. I don't look back and I don't look down. _The height cannot be a fear if it does not exis_t repeats itself as a mantra until the door comes into view. We exit toward the tracks and I pick up the pace. Once the screeching of metal on metal is audible, I back up and give the group enough room for a running start. When most have clambered in, I reach out for the car's handle and lug myself up and into the car. I turn and do a quick headcount to make sure everyone has made it and catch sight of Al setting Tris down. A pang of - _of what?_ - swims through my chest and I cross to the doorway again. Behind me, Peter is taunting Tris but it's not as though I can continue to call out, "Enough!" whenever she is in danger of pain. _She doesn't need my help - she's strong_. This in no way diminishes my urge to punch Peter. I am in the middle of losing my internal battle with myself when I blurt out, "Am I going to have to listen to your bickering all the way to the fence?" I dislike flaunting my standing in the Dauntless, but it is useful - they all shut up.

I stretch out into the expanse of wind rushing against the train car opening and in this moment, I feel that small hope that sometimes creeps back to me, reminding me that the ideals of the Dauntless are not corrupt, just the leaders in charge of those ideals. This freedom I can live in for eight minutes and I savor the open expanse before my eyes, within my mind. The grating noise caused by the brakes jolts me back to the train, to the transfers behind me, to the chain-link fence in front of me; I jump down. I sense that they are all dumbstruck, unmoving, attempting to understand the presence of Dauntless guards surrounding Amity's fence. "Follow me," I beckon. Once I reach the gate, I pivot on my heel back to them. "If you don't rank in the top five at the end of initiation, you will probably end up here. Once you are a fence guard, there is some potential for advancement but not much. You may be able to go on patrols past Amity's farms, but-"

Will cuts me off. "Patrols for what purpose?"

My eyes narrow. _Can't they all just shut up and let me finish this?_ I attempt to look less annoyed than I feel. Shrugging, I reply, "I suppose you'll discover that if you find yourself among them. As I was saying. For the most part, those who guard the fence when they are young continue to guard the fence." A few lips part, eyebrows furrow. "If it comforts you, some of them insist that it isn't as bad as it seems." My teeth catch the inside corners of my cheeks to restrain them from curving upward. It's not that their fear makes me happy - well, it's not that the fear of most of them makes me happy.

Peter speaks up, "What rank were you?" I meet his green eyes and reply, "I was first."

He scoffs, but his face is contorted in confusion. "And you chose this? Why didn't you get a government job?" _Why do so many Candors insist on transferring to the Dauntless?_ I think. My voice is both lower and deeper than usual when the words "I didn't want one" come out. I turn back around to face the fence as a produce truck pulls up. I let the weight of my thoughts drop into my body and lean against the fence to offset the new-found heaviness. Time passes imperceptibly, maybe four minutes, or six? My thumb and forefinger press against the bridge of my nose to refocus my gaze and what they refocus on is Tris in a conversation with an Amity boy from the truck. While when I first looked, her face was blushed with frustration, it dissipates quickly. I strain to hear her mumble, "Besides, Robert. The goal of my life isn't just... to be happy". . . and I wish I hadn't.

My eyes skirt away and a sigh escapes through what I thought were pressed lips. I walk down the length of the fence to where Sarah is standing, a gun awkwardly hovering from behind her back. She was one of the few Candors I could tolerate from last year's batch of transfers, though she barely made it through initiation. Like Tris, she has a slight frame; unlike Tris, she cowers at any sign of authority, which is why although my intention was to come see how she is doing, she quickly averts her eyes and heads toward the locking gate when I approach her. I head back toward the transfers, more than ready to leave. Tris is still standing in the same position, eyes glazed over in the direction of the truck that is now long gone.

I approach her, closer, and now too close. Her eyes meet mine, wide, but her feet remain firmly planted. "I am worried that you have a knack for making unwise decisions," I state directly. I can't keep her safe if she keeps saying these things. Why I feel a need to keep her safe is another issue entirely and one that she doesn't need to know of.

Annoyance creeps onto her face. "It was a two minute conversation." Her voice has an edge to it that no previous transfer has ever spoken to me with. I don't know how this makes me feel and I push it away for now.

"I don't think a smaller time frame makes it any less unwise," I say softly, so as not to further agitate her. I take in her face, a blue and purple swirl, but eyes still bright, blue and alive. A searing ache slithers from the pit of my stomach, up to my heart, ripples over my face, then down through my arm, and before I can command myself to stop, I reach my fingertips out to the corner of her eye, the blue from the bruise seeping in and forming a placid lake. Her head yanks backward and I pray it is a reflex and not me causing her pain or God forbid her fearing me. I foolishly keep my fingers lightly pressed against her temple, as though I can absorb the bruises, and meet her eyes. I sigh out, "You know, if you could just learn to attack first, you might do better."

Confusion settles on her features. "Attack first? How will that help?"

"You're fast," I answer forthright. "If you can get a few good hits in before they know what's going on, you could win." I realize I have been standing with her, touching her for far too long and I unwillingly drop my hand and shrug away the cold that now enters.

As I am about to begin toward the train again, she whispers so lowly I almost miss it, "I'm surprised you know that since you left halfway through my one and only fight."

I freeze, taken aback by her comment. I didn't realize she had noticed, and the fact that she is mentioning it means she cared. Does she know I stopped the fight too? She couldn't - she was out cold. "It wasn't something I wanted to watch," I admit. Something catches in my throat, a lump, and it is all that I can do to choke it down. The grating brakes of the train pull my attention toward the others and I reluctantly say, "Looks like the next train is here. Time to go, Tris."


End file.
